


My Boyfriend, The Devil!

by flowergothqueen



Category: Faust - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Original Work
Genre: Bisexuality, Demonic Possession, Demons, Fluff and Angst, Genderfluid Character, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowergothqueen/pseuds/flowergothqueen
Summary: -You were supposed to impregnate me.-I'm sorry. I missed the memo.After years of living with a coven, Persephone (just call her "Perse") undergoes a ritual to become the mother of the Antichrist. Instead, she ends up possessed by a snarky demon.Wacky antics ensue, and in the process, Perse deals with her body dysmorphia and painful past. Her demon also deals with his own, well, demons.
Kudos: 3





	1. Don't Forget the Flower Crown

**In about an hour,** I’ll be pregnant with the Antichrist. No big deal. I don’t feel any different yet, except for the tightness in my throat. It’s the twenty-second of September, the night of the autumnal equinox, and I’m waiting for the big ritual.

I sit on the top stair of the wood cabin I share with Martha, my closest friend for the past six years. She’s been giving me books and tips to prepare for being pregnant.

“Not that I know anything about that,” she told me. “I just, you know, at some point, tried to prepare for that.”

An amber glow comes from inside, and the moon glares orange through the treetops. It’s getting chilly, oof, but at least the lightning bugs are pretty. So are the gold-red trees. When I first found this place, delirious and half-starved, I freaked out at the shriek of cicadas; I never heard or saw any in Old Mill, only heard a bunch about them in poetry.

Smoke and laughter in front of us, through the trees.

A creak, and Martha steps out behind me. I can tell which coven member is on the porch by their footsteps. Something falls on my head.

“Don’t forget the flowers,” she said.

Behind the cabin, some goats bleat. “Never.”

Humming to herself, Martha sits by me, dressed in a similar, pink robe. A wreath of coral-orange chrysanthemums coils in her wavy brown hair. Mine used to be as long as hers, but I cut it, so it curls just below my ears.

I fidget with my hair, scratch my scalp, pull my robe tighter around myself. “I don’t have to get naked yet, right? It can wait until I actually get inside the circle.”

She laughs and sets a hand on my shoulder. “Why are you so modest? We’ve all seen each other naked before. You really need to lighten up and get in an orgy or three.”

“Right, those. They make it hard to sleep sometimes.”

“You know, I’m pretty sure Gretchen and Adam have crushes on you.”

Heat floods my face. “Nah, I’ll pass.”

She smooths my hair behind my ear. “I worry about you sometimes.”

I have to keep myself from picking at my face or getting too beat up over what Martha said. I've been doing what I can to belong; after tonight, no one can doubt my loyalty to Starry Wisdom. “I worry about me, too, you know, with what’s going to happen.”

Martha frowns. “Didn’t you say you want to do this?”

“I do. I mean, it’s what High-Adept Aemilia saw in the stars. This is what I’m meant to be.” It feels good knowing what your purpose is because then you can walk straight toward it, like a light at the end of the path, like Little Red Riding Hood looking for her grandma’s cottage. No getting all angsty about not knowing my identity. I know what I am, who I am, where I belong. So, now I have to do what I was meant to do.

“You can back away, you know,” Martha says.

“I know.”

“I mean, this is kind of romantic. Like the wedding of Oberon and Titania.”

“Right.” I meet Martha’s brown, soft eyes, and she pulls me into a hug, my chin on her shoulder.

When I pull away, I stand, my nails digging into my sleeve. “I should probably get going.” I want to get everything over with, enter the next stage in my life before my stupid brain gave me some reason to try and bolt.

Martha gets up, too, and straightens her glasses. I reach out to her. She’s basically the only person I let touch me. Guess that’ll change.

Her fingers brush against mine, and I squeeze her hand. When I try to go, she pulls me back.

“Wait, what about Pixie?” Martha asks. Pixie’s my pet black goat. When she was little, I cut up pool noodles from the shed and put them on her horns because she kept butting them into things.

I frown. “I’m not going to sacrifice her.”

She raises her brow. Exasperation. “You know that might make the ritual fail.”

My jaw sets. “It’s my ritual, my body, my rules.” Somewhere, an owl hoots.

Martha looks out into the dark woods. “I know, but—”

I reach into my robe pocket and pull out a grossy squishy cloth bag. “Look.”

“What’s in it?”

“I found this dead mouse outside the cabin. I think it’s a sign.” It kinda grosses me out, having it in my pocket, but I’d rather do that than holding it.

Martha doesn’t look convinced. “Looks like one of the familiars got to it.”

These woods were home to the Starry Wisdom Temple, which has no temple. It’s set up at an abandoned summer camp. About fifty people live here, give or take, thirty-something women and the rest men.

I tell Martha, “It’s a sign, I’m telling you.”

“Maybe it’s only what you want it to be.”

I shrug. “Isn’t that what a sign is?”

Martha releases a weary sigh. “Okay. I’ll go along.”

“C’mon. What’s the worst—”

She puts her hand to my mouth. “Just don’t. Please.” I laugh and take her hand again. This is it, my new beginning.

Barefoot, we walk between the trees. Leaves crunch beneath us. As Martha and I walk to the ritual circle, we pass the old shed with the rusted Coke sign above the door, which rotted off decades ago. The laughter grows closer, and the pungent scent of herbs and wood burning is intoxicating.

An unseen chorus of toads and crickets greets us from beyond the trees. The woods will grow darker and the night longer; already, the shadows have more teeth. The first time I was out here, I had nightmares about getting lost and a monster I could never fully see chasing me. Sometimes, its shadow had antlers or the hulking form of a bear. Other times, it looked like something I tried to recognize but couldn’t, though I felt as if it’d been around before. Thankfully, my figurative balls dropped after the first winter.

And it’s easier walking along the well-trod paths when someone’s with you. By my foot, something flits by. Probably one of the cats who tend to find refuge under the cabins.

When Martha and I enter the clearing, the light of the fires, five on the outside corners, makes all the reds and yellows starker. The hot smoke and cool air cause things to twist back and forth, and smoke slithers high in the air.

I used to imagine rituals like these would have a giant pyre in the middle. But instead, there is a circle grooved into the ground, all leaves meticulously swept away. I check my feet and the hem of my robe to make sure I haven’t dragged any into the clearing. Each fire has a line going from it to the clearing’s center, where a blue blanket patterned with gold symbols rests. a slice of sky. Doesn’t seem all that comfortable a place for a love sesh, not that I’d know.

The sheer sleeves of my blue robe reveal the tattoos extending from her left shoulder to her elbow: a collage of colorful flowers, skulls, a black cat with amber eyes, an eye with an orange iris. On the rest of my left arm, there are two small black tattoos, a pale, toothy vampire in its coffin and a sign that was the female and male symbols combined, a testament to the genderfluidity of Baphomet. The Yggdrasil symbol on my right foot, which I did when I was fourteen because it looked cool. I’d done some of them alone. Martha, along with some of the others, helped me with most of them. She has an Ouroboros above her right knee.

My tattoos are the best part of me. Sometimes, it’s strange to think that part of my body is art. In the firelight, the images on my skin dance. I blink, but they don’t stop. And I haven’t even had any of Gretchen’s “tonics” yet.

This feels like the end of something, but it’s not. I’d have a long time to chill with Martha as she read her lovingly yellowed _Summoning Circles for Beginners_ with its many sticky notes and different highlighters.

Looking at all the others dancing and chatting, I murmur, “These sexy witch robes don’t leave a lot to the imagination.” It feels weird, having my breasts pillow out like this. It also feels weird how casually Gretchen and Adam are chatting half-naked on a log, and Jamie over there is poking the fire with little care how much the robe is showing.

This is good. This is contentment, lack of judgment, but I still feel odd.

“Shh, don’t let anyone here you say that,” Martha teased.

I blink.“What?”

“You know, the W-word.”

“Witches” is a forbidden word here because of how nebulous it is when talking about a group of people; “witch” is a pretty broad term that applies to hundreds of different beliefs and practices. Everyone here called themselves Acolytes of Dis.

“Just whatever you do,” Martha had said, years ago. “Please, please don’t call the dudes warlocks.” There was this whole emphasis on keeping things equal, which I liked, but I couldn’t help but feel what I was doing was a way for me to feel even more like myself, who I’m supposed to be as a woman who wants to belong somewhere. I wondered if I could cross the divide between the infernal—and maligned—feminine and the divine feminine.

That sounds like nonsense. That’s what I get for spending most of my time reading esoteric tests. Some of the acolytes had very essentialist ideas of what makes a man and woman, auras and stuff. They see periods as times to revere. The Infernal Lord (my future magical one-night stand, holy shit) was supposed to be everything and nothing at once, and I preferred that.

I’ll find out.

“You’re going to be great,” Martha said.

I stop myself from chewing the inside of my cheek. “Thanks.”

Around the circle, some dance. Penelope, the arts and craft girl, a connoisseur in macaroni painting, which is surprisingly relaxing. Rebecca, one of the women who manages the different substances made here, from healing salves to aphrodisiacs to acne cream. With one rule: no love potions.

“Just be—”

I grimace. “Don’t say ‘just be yourself’. Please. That’s my least favorite thing to do.”

Martha pats my shoulder. “Just act natural.”

“You basically said the same thing.”

Her smile widens. “Just be normal.”

“Not sure this applies here.”

On one of the logs, dappled with white mushrooms, Aemilia sat. Prim, the fires illuminating her silver hair and long, pensive face. Her robe is the color of her hair, tied in one long plait over her shoulder. I never knew I’d be into an older lady coven leader more than Jessica Lange from the third season of _American Horror Story: Coven_ , a pretty formative part of my early teens. But here we are.

I roll my shoulders and try to release the tension between them. It’s okay. This is what I’m supposed to do.

Once I do it, once I get pregnant, everyone here will like me. Take care of me. Give me food and gifts. Not see me as the awkward outsider. Respect me. Maybe I’ll like the changes to my body, feel more at home in it. This is what the stars themselves—God or whatever—want me to do. Because it’s all connected, infernal and divine. And for me, woman and man. There’s not really any Satanism or Christianity; everyone, even the Devil, acts in the great balance of order and chaos, good and evil. And everything’s ordained.

Me? I always thought the Devil, whoever they are, was cooler as a rebel, not God’s servant, but that’s not very Starry Wisdom of me.

Infernal and divine. Man and woman. But that’s not right. I’m in my room. It’s morning. I want to wear a suit to Grandma’s funeral. Mom and Dad insist I must wear a dress or stay home. And it’s not that I have anything against dresses, but _right then_ , it felt wrong on me, but they didn’t care. Kissing my cheek, Dad would say, _C’mon kiddo, I’m open minded, but not enough for my brain to fall out._

As we approach, the others quiet, which is good. The acolytes aren’t a huge group, but more than two is pretty uncomfortable for me, especially with a lot of chatter.

“Ah, you’re here,” Aemilia says, her voice like hushed waves.

Eyes on the prize, and straight ahead at Aemilia’s face.

“Yep, that’s me,” I reply. “You know. Here.”

In one graceful motion, Aemilia stands. “Let’s get started.”


	2. Poodle in the Void

**“Yeah,” I say, forcing** my chin up. By Aemilia’s feet old milk jugs full of cinnamon water. At least, that’s what Aemilia told me would be in them. For a fertility anti-baptism, something about increasing blood flow to the reproductive organs.

To be honest, fall isn’t the season I’d think we’d want to do some fertility thing; mostly, those happen in spring, and we tend to be more concerned about our gardens than popping out babies. But there’s something sacred in the wind during this particular equinox. It’s the best chance for the Great One to rise.

Everyone’s looking at me. Sweat pools under my arms and breasts, prickles my hairline.

I’m afraid of them seeing my freckled thighs with my old, faded stretch marks. Since I came here, I’ve lost about fifty-something pounds. At first, I thought it was good, that I was becoming more like what I thought I should be. But I still feel off, and these damn stretch marks won’t go away. Oh well, guess I should embrace them as part of my life going forward.

And the wrongness hit me, but there’s nothing wrong with having a baby, especially  _ the _ baby. This is who I’m supposed to be, and I shouldn’t let my reptile brain mess things up.

Aemilia sets her hands on my shoulders, under the fabric, and she slips the robe open, exposing part of me. I swallow, control my breathing. When she pulls them away, I admire her elegant hands—no, Perse, bad. Focus. Martha shuffles and holds back a sneeze behind me.

“Where is the sacrifice?” Aemilia asks me.

I hold out the bag with the dead mouse. The thing you need to know about Aemilia is that she always says everything as a straightforward statement, even questions.

“Seriously,” Aemilia says, taking the bag and resting it on her palm.

“Yeah.” I try to sound confident.

“Did you kill this yourself?”

I point a finger at the bag. “See, I’d like to think I hypothetically killed it. A murderer in spirit.”

Aemilia pressed her lips together. “Well, it’s better than nothing.” Her pale gray eyes darkened in thought. “You’re sure of this. You fully consent.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tears prick my eyes. I’m sure it’s all the smoke. It’s burning my nostrils. I resist the urge to cover myself up. I shouldn’t be ashamed; all my life, I’ve been told I’m not allowed to be ashamed, which only makes me feel guiltier. I can’t mess this up.

“Oh, none of that.” I’m not sure if she means the “ma’am” or the tears. “Come.” Aemilia takes my hand, and I look back at Martha, who gives me a thumbs up. I’m taken to the blanket, and, at Aemilia’s direction, I sit on it, tucking my legs under myself.

Over me, she says, “Remember: This will change everything. We’re all counting on you to help usher in the new world.”

Something comes into my mind that’s like  _ No pressure _ , but I feel like if I open my mouth to reply, I’ll start crying.

The red lipstick I’m wearing feels odd, too creamy and thick, like peanut butter gluing my mouth shut. A chill rakes down my spine, and I’m embarrassed that my nipples are getting hard. Not really how I expected my first date to go, but I guess when you’re going to meet Mr. Horny himself . . .

The fires around me roar. I jump. It’s like they know what I’m thinking. Is anyone listening? I can’t mess this up. For so long, I’ve never known what I’m supposed to do. The fires are supposed to cleanse my mind.

Aemilia sets a hand on my collarbone and guides me on my back. I’m too aware of my nakedness, and it hurts to swallow. The smoke heightens so much my eyes blur, and it’s hard to see.

I shut my eyes and take a deep breath.

One. Two. Three. Four.

It’s okay.

I want this.

I’m scared it’s going to hurt.

But it’s one experience I can get through. If I can get through Granny’s funeral, if I can live through being alone until I met the Temple, I can survive this. No problem.

The air swells. Everyone else has started to kneel around me in a circle. If they all think I should be here, I’m not alone. This is right. They murmur under the breaths, every man and woman. Soft chants.

The air swells like the flames. All the acolytes’ faces start to bleed together, a merry-go-round of mouths and eyes. They’re all looking at me, and it should make me self-conscious, but it tells me the one thing I want: I matter.

I’m so rapt I want to tell them to stop, to break my trance, but I can’t. At the same time, I want to see what’s going to happen next. No matter what, everything changes tonight.

A gust of wind. The flames roar, the trees whisper. Darkness threatens the edge of my vision. Though she’s a pale blur, I recognize Aemilia above me, and I hear the soft pop of her uncapping the milk jug.

“May I?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply, growing still.

If I wasn’t so frozen, I’d flinch when she sets two cold, wet fingers on my forehead. She trails her touch down to between my brows, pausing. I can’t hear what she’s murmuring. Or maybe that’s the crickets. I want to sleep. That’s not right. Everything smells of smoke and cinnamon. It’s a little soothing. Her fingers go down my nose, my lips, and . . .

My eyes are closed. When did I close them? I open them, and everything hurts.

I sit up. No chants, no fire, no smoke. I don’t smell anything, either. Around me’s a white void. No blinding lights, just white. Everything’s . . . cold? Like I’m inside a speck of snow. I press my hands down and only find air, but I’m able to stand and stay where I am.

I look around. Is this Hell? I can see it becoming unbearable. It’s a little cold, so I wrap my arms around myself and realize I’m not alone. Ahead of me is a dark beast with dark eyes, a . . .

A poodle. A black one who’s wagging their tail.

I hug my robe around myself. “Uh, hi.”

They growl and bark. Oh, great. It’s gonna be just like when I delivered papers.

“Hi, uh. Doggo.” I wave. It doesn’t placate them. “Nice day in the heavenly abyss.”

Their—his?—voice booms. “ _ Don’t call me doggo. _ ”

“Right . . . sir. Sir?”

No response.

I scratch my neck. “Um, so I think maybe you should . . .” Change into something that’s not a poodle trying its best to be as intimidating as a chihuahua.

“ _ Why are you here? _ ” He doesn’t sound as intimidating, then. Annoyed, that’s it.

I’m annoyed, too. “I’m, well, I’m ready. Or maybe not.”

“ _ Ready for what? _ ”

“Come on, du—sir. Don’t make me say it out loud. Can you, er, become person-shaped?”

“ _ What are you talking about? I was tipping back a bottle of chardonnay and making a bunch of nitwits at the pub fight, and now you— _ ”

“Chardonnay, really, dude?”

The poodle opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

My stomach drops, and I feel that tug in my chest as I fall, and I see him—Him, HIM?—fall with me. I plunge into darkness, and it reeks of smoke and cinnamon. It’s like falling in a dream or that jerky feeling when you’re in bed and your body, out of nowhere, thinks you’ve lost balance.

The only thing I see are my hands. They look strange, like they’re not a part of me. I’ve had this feeling before. I try to look at myself as an all right whole—not my hair, mouth, thighs, stomach. Acne-scarred face. It’s hard, and my hands are growing farther from me, and I can’t catch them. Make them a part of me again.

Stifling heat fills my chest. Squeezing my eyes shut, I go back to the space in my head when I’m stressed to the point of burnout. My childhood kitchen. The round dining table. Orange and yellow roses freshly cut in a clear base. I smell peanut butter cookies while I’m in a chair, petting the orange tabby curled in my lap.

I have no idea where—

My eyes are so gummy, like I’ve been asleep for several hours. Crackling fire. Murmurs. A pressure on my shoulder.

_ —Where am I? What did you do? _

My mind’s so fuzzy my thoughts are fractured. Can barely complete them. They echo.

_ —Where, where, where . . . _

When I crack open my eyes, the world is orange and blue. The stars are out, but I didn’t notice them before.

A garden of flowers atop hills of hair. My lips hurt when I try to move them. Everything feels heavier. The ground is cold, and I swear I’m molded into it.

“Where’s . . . where’s my . . .” My flowers have fallen on the ground.

“Perse?” Martha looms above me, eyes wide in worry.

I start, “Did he . . .”

An owl gives a plaintive cry.  _ Hoo . . . hoo . . . hoo . . . _

Somewhere behind me, Aemilia says, “We should get you to bed.” By “we,” she means everyone but her.

Hands behind my back. I must weigh a ton. I want to touch my stomach, look in the mirror. Something’s different. I did it.

My eyelids are heavy. My covers are way too far away.

When I’m guided to my feet, and they move, the walk feels like miles and miles, and everything’s a blur of lights against the dark.


	3. Hangover

**I open my eyes,** fingers curling on top of the soft, knitted covers. My head aches behind my left eye, and outside the window, robins sing. The smell of cinnamon and smoke lingers, and I lift the covers slightly. Someone dressed me in a blue nightgown. Martha.

I don’t even remember being put to bed. Or dreaming. I look at my wrist, my forefinger, which I twirl. Everything intact, everything me.

Slipping my hand beneath the covers, I set my fingers on my stomach, something I’ve tried to make myself stop doing. Everything feels like it did yesterday, which makes sense. After Aemilia said I’d been chosen to have the Great One’s child, I asked her if a supernatural pregnancy with a literal demon-child would be different from having a normal kid. Because when I think of demons, I don’t think of red men with pitchforks. They exist on a metaphysical level I can’t quite wrap my head around.

I feel a slight cramp below my navel, and it scares me. I crane my head to look at something on my headboard; my flower crown was placed around the wooden pole. It’s a little crumpled, some red dirt dusting the chrysanthemums. I look down to see some of the yellow and orange petals have fallen.

The cabin interior is simple. My bed is against the wall farthest from the door, and Martha’s is along the right wall, across from mine. We share a dresser, which is to the left of my bed. It smells of sage and lavender incense. The walls are wood and undecorated, the top of the dresser stacked with books, many with petals I’ve found and pressed between the pages for Martha to find, amused.

Mostly, we have clothes and books, and that’s it. I like to spend my time near the creek as silver fish swim in it and butterflies dapple the rocks and branches.

Groaning, I knead the skin between my brows; my head is still heavy. Everything is, and the sunlight doesn’t help. I blink and rub the crust from my eyes.

The door opens, and more light floods in. My instinct is to flinch away, but part of me is grateful for it, grateful to see Martha standing there in her flowery pink dress and red coat.

She beams, and I try to return it. “Hey, you’re up!”

I shift my shoulders higher on the pillow, and my neck pops. Pain pools there. I should’ve known lying on the ground would bite me in the ass. Mom had fibromyalgia, and lately I’ve noticed more aches in my shoulders, knees, and hips, my neck and jaw cracking like I’m rusting.

“I still feel pretty horizontal,” I reply. She approaches, lines forming on her forehead. “Did it work?”

She sits by me, setting her hand near mine. “The ritual? I think so. The fires started to climb higher, and the lines in the ground—they lit up. I was scared you’d get set on fire. Couldn’t have that.” Her fingers settle against mine. Normally, I like her warmth, especially when it gets colder, but I feel too warm now. Feverish.

“How long was I out?”

“All night.”

“When I was in the circle.”

“You were there for about five minutes.” Interesting. I thought it could’ve been a few seconds or a few hours. “What happened?”

“I saw . . . there was this place. It was white and cold. And someone was there.”

“What did they look like?”

“A poodle.”

Martha’s mouth forms words she never says. She settles on: “A . . . poodle?”

“Yeah. It was weird. And then I was falling.”

“Did it . . .”

I finish, “Hurt?” Martha nods. “I don’t know.” The space between my shoulder hurts, and it can be hard to determine normal-hurt from serious-hurt. “I just feel heavy.” I’m not sure how much to reveal. That I didn’t have some crazy sex fest with Satan himself. That I’m having these familiar cramps, and I know what they mean.

Martha cares for me more than anyone else here. Aemilia asks me for permission and asks how I’m doing, too, but with her, I worry about failing her. And Martha, she’s my friend, but all the same, she encouraged me to give myself to the Great One. They all have expectations of who I need to be.

Everyone’s counting on me. Aemilia told me so. I should be pregnant right now. Maybe I am. Not like I have a prior reference point. Maybe these pangs are normal when you have Satan’s kid in you. If any kid would be difficult immediately after conception

But when I was under, I never slept with anyone. Then again, guess there’s nothing to say the Devil does things the Biblical way. The angry poodle thing though, that was weird. Not sure that was Satan, but whoever it was sounded surprised and fell like me.

Martha smiles. In the sun, her hair shines. “You know, I was thinking, maybe we could go by the creek and mellow out.”

“I dunno.” That sounds nice, but my eyelids, like everything else, are heavy.

Another twinge below my navel.

As one does, I say to my uterus:

—Figure you’d be a massive pain in my ass.

My uterus replies:

_ —I’m the pain? I’m the one mired in the void while you nap. _

A smooth baritone. I pause.

Wait.

Uh oh.

—Holy. Um. Is my uterus talking back?

_ —I’m not in your uterus. I’ve possessed you. Against my will, I might add. _

—Um. What. Holy shit, my womb is talking back. Pretty sure I saw this in a movie once.

_ —I’m not— _

A lump forms in my throat. I should be freaking about, but a crushing numbness washes over me.

“Uh, Perse.” I snap my attention to Martha, who’s frowning. “Everything okay?” She pushes my hair away from my face.

“That cat totally jinxed that mouse. Asshole.”

Martha purses her lips. “I thought the ritual went fine, though you had me worried, with how tired you were.”

I scratch my neck, oh no, I’m doing it again. Stop. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. It went fine.” Why?”

“Your face was all scrunched up.”

“Sorry, my back is hurting a little from lying on the ground.” That dark-bright shine of Pity with a capital P. I must look like a hella mess. “You deserve to rest. I just thought it’d be good for you to enjoy the weather.”

There’s something, someone in me. It sounds like the poodle.

“If you need to rest, that’s okay. I’ll leave you alone. I only know when Ryan died . . .” She relates to me. I’d lost my grandmother when I was younger, two years before I ran away, and she lost her husband. The third one, she always clarifies. It’s odd to think someone only a little older than me could have had three husbands already, but one was an escape from her evangelical parents, another cheated on her, and the third, Ryan, died in an accident.

Her grief, that pulse against my arm when she sets a hand on it . . . it’s real. Molded. Surging in me through her. I can’t give her anything back. It eats at me more than my loss. My grief looks like . . . I haven’t let it look like anything, except nothing.

My jaw tightens before I answer, “Please don’t leave me.”

“Okay,” Martha says. “I won’t, until I get hungry.” A sign everything’s normal: Martha makes sure everyone’s eating schedule is on point. It used to bug me. When I’m not hungry, it’s hard to make me eat.

I lean my head into my pillow, which is still and smells like mothballs. “I’m sore.”

The corners of Martha’s mouth deepen. “Oh, right.”

Part of me wants to be alone, so I can figure out what the hell’s going on. Another part needs a distraction, a tactile sensation under my fingers to prove I’m here, and I’ll be okay. “But I’ll go with you.”

When I start to get up, Martha sets a hand on my collarbone. “Whoa. Are you sure, hun?”

The magic word. “Yeah.”

“Do you need your cane?” Martha, the sweetheart, actually whittled a cane for me. It’s a smooth stick that spirals at the end. What would the others say if they saw me with my cane? I mostly use it in the winter. _ Guess the Devil really did his work. _

All this, and I didn’t even get laid. I should be figuring this all out, and I will. I just need some time, one last hour of normalcy. As normal as hanging out with a fellow acolyte can be.

When I fully sit up, I wince. “Yeah.” I gesture toward the dresser. “But first, let’s get some more cheetos for Pixie.”

***

An ant tickles my nose. Martha’s hand in mine is callused and hard along her palm. Before we went out, I dressed in pants and an oversized blue college sweatshirt, something Dad had gotten me. Pawing the bottom of the drawer, I found what I was looking for: the smooth coldness of a peace dollar Mom gave me, something her father had passed down to her. I slipped it in my pocket; I’d like to believe it’s good luck.

My headache’s a little better. I say, “Thanks for being here with me.”

Her mouth dimples. “Hey, no problem.”

Spending time at the creek with Martha, watching the fish swim in the shining water, relaxes me, as does the low rush of the water slipping over rocks. It doesn’t last long.

The grass prickles my elbows when some of the other acolytes find us, baskets hooked around their elbows as they pick plums. Petals still dapple their hair.

They crouch down and gawk at me. Paw at me, keep touching my stomach. These people I haven’t exchanged five words with. My vision narrows, and my mind grows funny. My body, yeah, it’s never only mine. I’m not the only one who sees it. What do they see?

By me, Martha’s shoulders stiffen, and she bristles. “Nothing’s going to happen when you touch her.” She’d step in front of me. “Okay, y’all, personal space.”

Eventually, I go to the restrooms and shower building alone, after I insist to Martha I’ll be okay. Boy and girl doors. I pause. A cramp down below, urgent. I sigh and make my choice.

When I get inside the old wooden building, which is dim and smells of mildew, dead gnats litter the floor. Without much thought, I go into the first stall, yank up my dress, and pull down my underwear to check.

I’m bleeding.

It’s okay.

Breathe. In. Out. In. It catches.

It’s okay.

I’m not having a miscarriage; Mom had one when I was ten, and it wasn’t like this, when Dad clung to her on the floor by the master bedroom doorframe. This is too soon. Normal, as normal as it can feel. Sometimes when I have my period, it feels as fine as it can be. Other times, it’s like my own body’s mocking me, a reminder that my body is somewhat but not quite what it should be.

Okay, I know what to do. After smoothing over my clothes, I go to one of the cracked, rusty sinks and open the cabinet under it. A sadly tilted bag of pads. I grab one and go back in the stall to dam the flow. Or, I guess, give the flow a cushy landing.

When you live with a group that’s mostly cis women, having your period isn’t a big deal. But when you’re supposed to be an expecting mother—allegedly, the Devil has a hundred-percent success rate—it’s, well, bad.

Once I have everything in place, I stare in the mirror and, with the backdrop of urine hitting the toilet bowl, look deep into myself. How does one summon the demon that lies in the depths of their soul?

—Hey. You there?


	4. M

**A tug at my** heart, like when Aemilia puts her hand on my shoulder, or Martha gives me a look that lets me know I belong here.

Someone answers, and I swing my body to face the wall because the mirror’s too much:

_ —Indeed. I am here, _

_ as I was in the night. _

_ Ever patient, near _

_ where I’m resigned, right _

_ in this basin of bones _

_ without a means to fight. _

_ So I remain, al— _

—Stop, Dante. Having a mom who was an English major killed poetry for me, dude.

_ —Verse is the pinnacle of art. _

—Not past the nineteenth century. Okay. So, are you a demon?

_ —Of a higher echelon, yes, though I’ve wanted to inquire you myself. _

—Why didn’t you?

_ —Didn’t what? _

—Inquire.

_ —I tried, but I was trapped. Like the jinn in  _ Arabian Nights _ , I suppose. _

He’s  _ in _ me. It’s a little awesome in its absurdity, but that it’s  _ me _ but also not . . . it’s strange. My body’s already weird to me without going through this. I imagine my body as a bottle with precious gems inside, and I’m afraid to tumble and break it.

You know how there are those thought exercises, like  _ When you’re struggling, talk to yourself like you’d talk to someone else _ ? It’s like that. He may be a demon, but he’s a part of me I want to either tread around tenderly or remove entirely.

—You were supposed to impregnate me.

_ —I’m sorry. I missed the memo. _

—Don’t you mean “telegram”?

_ —Memos existed back then. _

Fair enough.

Guess I never asked what the Devil wanted in all this; I’ve mainly been thinking about how all this affects me in everyone else’s eyes.

—You missed? Then get out.

_ —I can’t. Your summoning spell locked me in. It seems I cannot skip out again. _

Summoning spell? It wasn’t supposed to be . . .

The sacrifice.

I’ve messed things up.

He’s trapped inside someone’s body. If he wasn’t a demon, doing an apparently demon-typical thing, it’d probably be scary.

—But aren’t you . . . you know, you?

_ —I’m not all-powerful. I’m a servant of nature, like you. _

—Whose nature?

_ —The nature of the way things are. _

—What’s your name?

— _ I have many, some in languages that would melt your mind. _

—Uh, stick with one that leaves my mind relatively unmelted.

— _ Call me M. _

  1. I can see the shape of it, the cold, dark lines.



Then again, it’s also the nearly universal letter you see used for variations of Mom. Or so Mom told me, since she was—is a linguist. Because it’s soft, easy for a baby’s mouth.

—Aren’t you Satan?

_ —No. _

  1. Morningstar? Is he lying? If pressed, he probably won’t admit anything.



—Then who is?

I read  _ Paradise Lost  _ when I was eleven and too ambitious for my own good, and I saw Satan like this: Long, shining blond hair; a white, Greek body. Can’t imagine the eyes.

_ —He doesn’t exist. _

—Oh. Does God exist?

_ —Of course. _

—Okay. There’s no “the Devil”? No Lucifer who fell from Heaven and became Satan?

—Lucifer.

_ —Yeah? _

—Don’t use that name.

I want to tell him it’s not fair that he can use it, but I can’t. But I feel a tension there, like a cat holding back its own injured leg.

—Okay.

_ —We are legion. There’s no one grand leader, a king. That would defy the purpose of going against God’s tyranny, to have one. We’re not the mirror image of Heaven. _

—No offense, but I always sorta thought the hypocrisy was the point. What do you have, a democracy? A demon-cracy?

_ —“Satan” is merely all enemies of God. Me, Beelzebub, Lilith. You. _

Though M ignores my stellar pun, I swear I feel pressure leave my lungs, like I’ve released a deep sigh. He’s wrong, though. I’m nowhere on the same level as any of those names. I’ve never been spectacular unless I’ve worn the dress or I’ve worn the right flowers or I’ve done the ritual.

And I take an inch and make it a mile. I’ve worn dresses before, and they’re soft and light. I like flowers. I’ve participated in minor rituals. So, I can keep giving in the hopes that it fills some void in me. Makes all the aches in my body worth it. Finally makes the mirror not feel like it’s cursed, like in some morbid fairy tale.

—I’m not an enemy against God.

_ —Oh? Then why did you summon me? _

—Were you an archangel?

_ —That doesn’t answer the question. _

—You didn’t answer mine. God.

_ —No, I’m afraid I’m one of Their lesser parts. I do evil constantly, and constantly do good. _

—I was supposed to have Satan’s baby. But if there’s no Satan, that’s a wrap. Instead, I got you. Now, I’m stuck. If they find out I’m not pregnant, or if they know I’m lying, I’m screwed.

Deep breaths. My standing here will reset me, except worse. I’ll go backwards. I’m the weird, out-of-place girl in a group of outcasts.

I press both hands to my stomach. Imagine it growing, feeling life pressing through on the other side.

Comforting.

Terrifying.

Mom. M-O-M. A definite label. Progress I can mostly count on. Like nine levels of a game. Where with each step, as scary as it might be, I can learn what turns to make, and I know how things will develop. The end, a solid purpose.

—You’re not complaining as much as you thought I’d be. Or trying to set people on fire.

_ —I suppose it’ll do little good. Best to research a way to separate ourselves, so I may go on my way, and you can go on yours. _

—Yeah.

_ —May I ask why you wanted to be pregnant with the Antichrist? _

—I don’t want to talk about it. So, were you in Heaven once?

After many of my thoughts, M says nothing. I feel him there, and I wonder if he’s just a guest who doesn’t hear or speak unless called. I’m afraid to know, to ask.

—If they find out I’m not pregnant, they’ll reject me.

What do I do then? Fess up and try again? Try again on my own? I already have a demon inside me. I should tell Aemilia. She would . . . I don’t know what she’d do.

Maybe she’d help me get the demon out. After all, it’s not like I think about what demons deserve too much, but I don’t think anyone deserves to be trapped.

_ —Surely a small commune doesn’t put so much pressure on a single person having a child. _

—Maybe if it was a normal fertility ritual. But I’m supposed to have the Antichrist. I’m. I’m supposed to do this ultimate thing, this ultimate thing that affirms my body’s what it’s supposed to be. And now—I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m here. They only like me because of what use I am to them. Everyone except Martha. And it worked. It’s working, for now.

I’m sitting on my old bed again, hand by my  _ Powerpuff Girls _ pillow. Mom holds out a long, black dress for me to wear. Dad kisses my forehead. Again, I’m wearing the wrong skin. I’m not a dude, not entirely, but this doesn’t feel right.

_ —You’re not happy here. They accept you conditionally, so you want to leave. Become what you’re actually meant to be. _

—I can’t leave. Nowhere else to go.

_ —I can relate. I will say it is likely ill-advised for you to leave a stable environment, though one must wonder how long it will remain cogent. _

—So, where should I go?

_ —I cannot answer that. _

—Some help you are. Completely defeats the point of you being here.

_ —Wasn’t my purpose something else? _

—Another point you defeated.

_ —I am merely a passenger, not a savior. _

—Okay. Then hear me out, please?

_ —It isn’t as if I have a choice. _

—I’ll give you a choice.

_ —Speak your bile, then. _

—Hey.

_ —It’s an expression. Bile prior to your times was thought to be excreted because of the imbalance of certain emotions— _

—Okay, nerd.

_ —Take that back. _

—I know all that. Okay, so say I leave. Where do you think I should go?

_ —I suppose it depends on what other locations will give you proper sustenance and pecuniary gains. Did you have somewhere you were before this? _

—You can’t see?

My pink floral wallpaper, stacks of colorful fantasy books with women who have determined eyes and weapons in both hands. My TV across from the bed, an old, dusty box that surprisingly still worked.

_ —No, it’s all darkness here. _

A pang of sympathy.

—That sounds terrifying.

_ —There are far worse things than mere darkness. _

—If I go out, I’ll freeze to death.

Great. At least he’s straightforward. Overwhelmed, I stumbled out of the bathroom, and the sunlight burns my eyes, makes a headache pulse painfully behind my eyes. I see no one outside the cluster of buildings, but to be safe, I go behind the restrooms and into the forest, a branch scratching my left arm.

_ —No, you won’t. Just say the word. _

—What word?

_ —“M, please oh please, you magnificent and handsome beast and pillar of charm, make me warm.” _

—That’s sixteen words. How about “Keep me warm”?

_ —That’s not polite. _

—It’s not like I wanted this.

_ —Trust me, I didn’t want this either, Persephone. _

—Ew. Call me Perse.

_ —You don’t like your name? _

—It’s fine, if you like people who don’t recognize it calling you “Purse-phone” all the time.

_ —I must say I can relate. And I’ve never been a fan of the Greeks, so “Perse” is quite satisfactory. _

—Demon names are hard to pronounce, huh? All that eye-melting.

_ —Some are easier than others, like Mammon. Beelzebub and I unfortunately drew the short sticks. _

—Straw, short straws.

_ —Don’t be ridiculous. We didn’t use hay. _

I press my tongue against the side of my cheek.

—Home. Mom and Dad. I could go there.

_ —You don’t sound sure. _

Martha . . .

“Hey, Perse!” I jump, and look up to see Gretchen, her ash-blonde hair tied back, cheeks flushed from the cold, a basket of small plums around her arm.

“Uh, hey!” My voice gets too high. Bad. “How’s the plum-picking going?” She doesn’t look at me oddly, but I was standing there, staring into nothing. Hopefully, she didn’t watch me for too long.

“Are you excited for the feast tonight?” Gretched asks, tilting her head.

“Um yeah,” I reply, hand going to the back of my neck. “Definitely.”

She’s pretty. Freckles smatter her nose and cheeks, and she often keeps her lips closed because of a gap in her front teeth. I can relate to her discomfort, big time, with my . . . everything. I never thought about it much before. When I was in school, I remember being most struck noticing how nice Amanda Tiller’s hands were and heat flooding my cheeks and neck. I don’t normally notice these things, stuck in my own head. But now, it’s a little more occupied.

Being on my period sometimes makes me think more, well, amorously than usual when it doesn’t make me feel off, but nothing ever comes of it.

“I mean, I guess a feast of microwaveable mashed potatoes and overcooked venison isn’t exactly  _ super _ fancy.” She comes close, and her smile widens. “I’m so excited—I already said that word, sorry. I’m so happy for you.”

I force myself to smile. “Thanks, I really appreciate it, Gretchen.” Wind tapers through the trees, disturbing her hair and chilling me.

“You know that thing about how it takes a village? We can all take care of the baby. When she was still alive, I took care of my little sister since she was a baby.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Gretchen waves with her free hand. “No, no, it’s okay.”

“Hey, when it starts puking, I can always turn it over to you.” That’s a joke, which sounded pretty good in my head, but it comes out way more biting than I intend. Yikes. My face grows heart, my pulse picking up at the base of my neck.

_ — _ Did you catch that?

_ —I can’t help but hear everything. _

—Yeesh.

_ —I do enjoy your wit. It’s on the barbed side. _

—Your sarcasm isn’t appreciated.

My nails dig into my nape. “I . . .”

Gretchen smiles. “It’s okay.” I’m not so sure it is. “I get it.”

“Thanks.” The corners of my mouth ache.


End file.
